Notes
by verraten
Summary: John Watson's life after The Fall. -Post-Reichenbach story.
1. The Fall

Notes  
Chapter One

* * *

_"So next time, when you're leaving,  
Could you at least leave a note?  
Next time, when you're leaving,  
Could you tell us before you go?"  
-**"Leave a Note," Missy Higgins**  
_

* * *

John Watson's heart was pounding. His chest was tight. His hands were shaking, clutching his phone to his ear, desperate.

He believed, hoped with everything he was that he could talk Sherlock out of this... this _madness_. If he could only just keep him on the phone, perhaps he could-

"Goodbye, John."

"No." John was still holding the phone to his ear, speaking into it. "Don't..." He was still clutching his phone, begging. Never mind the fact that Sherlock had since hung up on him and tossed his phone to the side. Never mind the fact that John knew Sherlock was unreachable by that point. Everything was foggy, everything was a million miles away. He was so beside himself with fear, with disbelief, that he couldn't even scream. All he wanted was to shriek and shout and let Sherlock know that he just _can't _do what he is about to do, but no more words came out. No more sounds escaped his lips.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me…_

John was sure it was a trick. He begged his palpitating heart to slow down because there was no reason to be frightened. There was no possibility that what he feared was really going to happen. Sherlock was proving a point. He was proving a point to John, to Lestrade, to everyone. That's all it was- some sort of dramatic gesture that would end with a brilliant way to get out of the mess he had gotten himself into. That was the reason for Sherlock's words, John was sure of it.

_This phone call... it's my note._

That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?

Those were his other words, though, and with those hollow syllables but heavy meaning, John's certainty wavered. His throat was constricted and his feet were frozen in place. All he could do was stare up at the roof of the hospital building and watch as the tall dark figure of his best friend, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, spread his arms, his eyes never wavering from John's, and fell.

"Sherlock!"

One beat of silence, two beats, three.

_This phone call... it's my note._

Goodbye, John.

John's stomach and heart both took what felt like the same sickening plunge that Sherlock just had. Everything was frozen, everything was quiet. Then, suddenly, reality kicked in, life picked up speed again. John's heart pounded so hard he could feel it throbbing in his throat, his head. He could hear it booming in his ears. It was _all_ he could hear. As he began to run towards the crowd that was now growing around Sherlock, he felt himself falling. Had he tripped? Had he been knocked over?

He didn't even feel the bicyclist hit him, didn't feel the crack of skull against pavement. He couldn't feel anything except his pounding heart and the overwhelming urge to vomit.

The blow to his head disoriented him further than he had been to start with. He was dizzy and confused. The world slowed down once more, and the cool pavement on his cheek calmed the waves of nausea that threatened to send him reeling should he take one more step.

By that point, the doctor knew he should have stood up slowly, steadied himself, sat down and awaited medical attention, just in case he had a concussion. Perhaps, under normal circumstances, he would have considered it. But these were not normal circumstances, not by a long shot. As he glanced up from the ground, he caught sight of the noisy crowd once again and he was able to push himself off of the ground and stumble into the circle of people.

He moaned, batted away at people trying to get him out of the way, away from the body. He moaned, spouted off useless excuses and explanations about being a doctor, being his friend. Eventually he managed to push his way through the crowd and instantly stopped dead in his tracks. The blood was the first thing he caught sight of. Naturally, it was the only thing he could fixate on until someone rolled Sherlock over onto his back, and John saw his face, his ice blue eyes staring blankly. He pushed through the remaining bodies and grabbed hold of Sherlock's limp arm. John clutched onto Sherlock's wrist, desperate for a pulse.

_Please, Sherlock, give me something they can work with. Something I can hope for, something to hold onto._

But there was no pulse.

Hands were all over him. Hands and faces and voices, pulling him away, giving him looks of pity and shock, meaningless words of condolences and commands.

There was no pulse.

The words bounced around his head, echoed in his mind a half dozen times before the enormity of that even began to sink in. After a few more repetitious thoughts of it, he allowed himself to go limp in the arms of the multiple doctors and bystanders pulling him off of Sherlock.

No pulse.

It began to become a mantra in the doctor's head, no longer just a worry, a whisper, an echo, but a throb. A pulse of its own. With each beat of his heart, he heard it.

_ No pulse. No pulse. No pulse. _

Dead.


	2. Chapter 2

"Let me see him," John begged Molly. He didn't remember leaving his spot from the sidewalk, didn't remember when he stopped staring at the puddle of blood on the dirty pavement, didn't remember stepping foot inside the hospital. All he remembers is trying to go through the mortuary doors, suddenly desperate, determined to see Sherlock, to try to make sense of this. The moment he reached the doors, Molly had stepped out, blocking John's access inside. "Just let me see him. Please."

Before Molly could respond with more than a grimace and a sad look, John heard footsteps behind him.

"You want to see for yourself that he is dead," Mycroft's even voice announced. "You are in denial of his death. You can't believe it is real until you see the body for yourself."

John turned to glare at Mycroft. He was not in the mood for assessments, wasn't in the mood to be read, analyzed, picked apart as if he were a case, a criminal. He rubbed a hand over his face and took in Mycroft's appearance. He looked too stoic. He was _acting _too stoic.

_Is that all it is? _John wondered to himself. _Is it an act, or is he truly that cold? _

He tried to read Mycroft. Tried, but failed. There was no denying the fact that, while not at all unintelligent, he was not nearly as apt at reading people as Sherlock had been. With disgust and horror, John pushed away the fact that he had just thought of Sherlock in the past tense.

Mycroft continued. "I assure you, he's dead. All seeing the body will do is upset you further." So cold, controlled, composed. His own brother. How could he keep it together like that?

John brushed it off, tried to focus on the subject. He couldn't get distracted, couldn't allow himself to stray away from the truly important task- to try to see him. He supposed Mycroft was partially right- He _did _feel almost as though Sherlock could still be alive.

He blinked at Mycroft, shook his head. "No, no, no. He can't be dead. He just can't be."

Molly finally injected herself into the tense conversation. "John, they wouldn't send his body down to me if-"

"Stop!" He found himself crying out. "Both of you, stop calling him that. He is _not _a body. It is not a body- it is _him. _It is _Sherlock._"

"I'm sorry, John," Molly tried to calm him down with soft words, but she kept stumbling over her tongue. "I understand, he's not _just _a body. I know. But he's gone, John. They wouldn't have brought him to me if it was still… him. Trust me."

Anger, denial, fury bubbled up. Indignation. "Oh, what do _you _know?" He spat at her.

Molly's eyes widened with shock. Her timid personality kept her from lashing out at him. That, and the fact that she knew he didn't mean it. He was just in shock and trying to hold in his grief. Molly tried to reach out to him, but he recoiled.

"No. I won't believe it until I see it." With that declaration, he pushed past Molly and darted straight into the freezing room. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, at the sight of Sherlock lying on the medical examiner's table. A cold slab of metal. "Oh, God," he groaned. With a shuddering breath, he walked forward until he was standing next to the table. John's knees very nearly gave out on him at not only the sight, but the details of everything he was taking in.

Sherlock's skin, normally pale as it was, was entirely devoid of any color other than a sickening white-grey color. He could hear them behind him, Mycroft telling Molly to just leave him to it, that it was his choice to subject himself if he truly wanted to. John shut them out of his mind as he took in the scrapes and bruises on Sherlock's face, the near-dried blood matted in his unruly curls.

_So much blood_, he recalled.

"Believe me now? Satisfied?" Mycroft asked from the doors.

"No," John shook his head in denial. He tried desperately to swallow the sudden lump lodged in his throat. "M-aybe… this is someone else's body. Someone who looks like him. Have… have you taken his blood yet?" He looked to Molly, his look so frantic that she thought he almost looked crazed. She nodded her head and his heart sank.

Mycroft cleared his throat as John turned back to Sherlock. "Why is it you ignore the facts that are presented to you?"

"_Why don't you_?" John yelled. "It's _Sherlock_, Mycroft. _That's _why I can't believe this. Because it's him, and I _know _him, and I know he would never have given up like this. The very idea of giving up was foreign to him. He would never give up, would never _lie_ about being a fraud and then bloody kill hims- Oh, God," He choked, unable to get the rest of his sentence out.

"I can't accept the facts beca-" He blinked back the tears beginning to sting his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he pointed at Sherlock's body, brandished his hand at him. "Because _this_ isn't okay, and I won't _allow _him to be dead. I won't allow it."

For just a moment, he thought he saw a look of sadness on Mycroft's face. "It doesn't do you any service to lie to yourself, or for me to lie to you. You must come to terms."

John shook his head adamantly. "Not when I don't believe this. If anyone could fake this, if anyone could pull this off, it's him."

"John." Mycroft's expression, his voice, they were both full of pity and exasperation with just a hint of admonishment.

He ignored Mycroft's words, turned to Sherlock's body, touched his cheek for a moment. His skin was so cold. With a wordless yell, he kicked at a nearby stand, sending a tray full of sterilized utensils flying and clattering to the floor. Heart in a vice, he slammed both fists down onto the metal of the gurney, very nearly hitting _his _body.

"You… you bastard!" He was suddenly so angry at him. Rage seared through his veins, made his heart pound, his head pound. He stared at the face of the most important person in his life, his world, and felt more emotions in those few moments than he had in the years before meeting _him. _Before meeting Sherlock.

He was angry, hurt, betrayed, heartbroken, and in denial.

"You stupid, selfish git," He whispered. "Why? Why _this_? What did you think you could possibly prove, possibly solve by doing _this_?"

Of course there was no answer. There would never be an answer.

With clenched teeth, clenched fists, he stormed out of the bleak room, pushing past Molly and Mycroft, ignoring Mycroft's poker face and Molly's distraught one.

"Hope your brother is pleased," He muttered caustically as he passed them.

Nothing else was said as he stormed down the hall, trying so hard to regain the soldier's composure that had been second nature until Sherlock came spiraling into his life.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a long silence after the morgue's doors were shut. Molly and Mycroft stood there in uncomfortable silence for a moment before Mycroft cleared his throat.

"It's okay now, Sherlock, to open your eyes and sit up whenever you'd like. I am sure the paralytic has worn off by now."

With a noise much resembling a cross between a sigh and a groan, Sherlock struggled to a sitting position on the gurney. He stretched out, flexing his hands, and stiffly swung his legs over to the side, his feet touching the floor. He may have fallen onto padding, but it was a long fall, a dangerous fall nonetheless, and every inch of him ached. Briefly looking himself over, he assessed the damage. He could feel blooming bruises on his face and shoulder as well as various cuts and scrapes and what could possibly be a sprained wrist.

All in all, he came out unscathed, considering the alternative.

After he evaluated all of his wounds, he turned to look at Molly and Mycroft. The glare he gave them very obviously frightened Molly, but exasperated Mycroft.

"You two," He began to sneer.

Mycroft cut him off. "Oh, don't start with me, Sherlock. There's no need to be dramatic over nothing."

"Nothing?" His eyes flashed ire. Contempt. "What was the _one _thing I asked of you- of both of you?" His voice was quickly increasing in volume. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Molly shifted uncomfortably, eyes wide, darting around, looking anywhere but directly at Sherlock. "You told us not to-"

"I told you not to let him see me!" Sherlock yelled over her much-too quiet voice. In his signature frustrated move, he bowed his head, shaking hands rubbing vigorously through his shaggy hair. Doing this, he realized his whole head was caked in fake, overly sticky blood. He sat up straight again, looked at his soiled hands with disgust.

Another sigh. "Do you have any idea," He said, voice clipped, eyes closed, head tipped up at the ceiling, "what could have transpired? Do you have any idea how easily this whole thing could have been compromised had I not been able to keep as perfectly still as I did?"

"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock," Molly stuttered. "There was no stopping him. I tried."

He pounded a fist on the stand next to him. "Well, you didn't try hard enough!"

Molly let out a squeak, tucked tail, and bolted from the room. However, Mycroft, ever the infuriatingly composed Holmes sibling, just stared at Sherlock and waited. There were a few moments of silence –seething, incensed moments on Sherlock's part- before Mycroft spoke.

"You're not worried at all about the threat of being compromised." It wasn't a question- it was an assessment of Sherlock's behavior.

"Of course I am. Don't be an idiot."

"No," Mycroft said softly, contemplative. "No, you're worried about Dr. Watson. You are upset about the effect seeing your body may have had on him."

Sherlock scoffed. "Whether he's upset or not is no concern of mine. The only priority is disassembling any of Moriarty's remaining cells and getting rid of all of his accomplices. If John so chooses to let the "death" of one person affect him negatively, that's his problem, _not mine._"

With raised eyebrows, Mycroft continued staring at Sherlock, entirely unconvinced. He knew his brother better than anyone else in the world did, and he could see the difference in his behavior without even trying to. Sherlock was an open book- one that read "I care a lot more than I am letting on," and "I have made the mistake of allowing myself to feel _emotions._"

Sherlock sighed in vexation. He was not about to sit there and argue with his brother about his priorities and whether or not he was being weak. He plastered a disgusted look on his face at the thought of his priority being John. Deep down, though, he felt something stir. There was a knot in his stomach; Guilt. Anxiety. His best friend- his only friend- was in danger. He had tried to save him, but had hurt him deeply in the process.

He was keeping secrets from him, harming him, causing him grief when all John had ever given him was the truth, his trust, his unwavering loyalty and friendship despite all the times Sherlock had thrown him under the bus.

It was necessary, all of this. For the protection of Lestrade, for the protection of Mrs. Hudson, for the protection of John. He _had _to wound John, make sure he knew Sherlock was dead so that he could be at his safest. John was a terrible liar. Sherlock wasn't the only one to have picked up on that. If John had been informed of the plan… who knows how long it would have taken for it to all become undone.

John was already suspicious in the first place.

_ If anyone could fake this, it's him._

Yes, it was necessary. With John already being suspicious- or in denial- even with all of the facts surrounding him, he simply couldn't risk informing him of everything. Not yet, at least.

_There is nothing wrong with what you are doing, _Sherlock chastised himself for the guilt. _Don't go soft, don't blame yourself for the co-dependency of others. _

And yet, Sherlock felt regret. He felt more, even. Possibly despair, he thought. But considering he had never dealt with any of these feelings before, he didn't quite know how to pinpoint them correctly or what to do with them.

A disapproving noise came from Mycroft, breaking Sherlock's concentration. Whether Mycroft had known what he was thinking, or simply thought he was still seething and pouting, Sherlock didn't know.

"Will you at least _try _to collect yourself?" Condescending tone, as always. "We have too many affairs to put in order. We simply don't have time for any of your tantrums." When Sherlock didn't bother to respond, Mycroft took it as agreement; he thought his brother was finally being "reasonable." Of course, Sherlock was too busy digging through his mind again, tempted but wary about hashing out his last conversation with John: his last words to him, the last things he heard John say to him both on the phone and on the slab.

"Fine, fine," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand at Mycroft. "I don't care what you do with the grave, or whether you have a funeral, or any of that trivial nonsense. Have me buried, have me cremated. It makes no difference to me." He knew that's what Mycroft had been wondering after.

Mycroft sighed once again. "Alright, so be it. I'll make the arrangements." He began to walk out of the room, but stopped and half turned for just a moment. "And what of your money, your belongings?"

Sherlock's eyes finally met his brother's.

"Everything's to go to John."


	4. Chapter 4

John hadn't left the flat for days. Three days, in fact; he had come straight home after the scene at the mortuary. He had gone straight home, sat in his chair, and stared. He was so entirely drained, so utterly numb, so in shock that that was all he was able to do. He couldn't eat, barely slept. When he _did _doze off, when he so much as closed his eyes, he was haunted. His mind would betray him.

Eyes closed, he'd see lightless blue eyes and pools of blood. He'd hear Sherlock's resigned voice telling him all kinds of lies, a goodbye, and the clatter of a phone. He'd hear his heart pounding, pounding, pounding in his head, pulse beating through every inch of his body.

If he did manage to fall asleep after that, he'd sleep fitfully. It was more of a common occurrence, however, that he'd toss and turn for a while before resigning to get up, fix himself a drink- sometimes tea, sometimes something stronger- and allow his racing mind to continue on in its own destructive way.

As a doctor, he knew that he needed to eat more, sleep more, move around more. H knew that, soon, he would need to go back to work, pick up a hobby- anything to beat the crippling depression that would become a long term problem if he didn't do _something _to chase it off. John knew that the longer he laid across the couch, the longer he drifted through the cluttered flat, the longer he sat in the kitchen and stared at Sherlock's half-finished experiments, the longer it would take for him to get back on his feet and resume a normal life.

But what _was _a normal life for Doctor John Watson? What did that now entail?

Only a little over a year ago, his life had been comprised of therapy sessions, hopelessly looking for a flat, and staring at the empty blog he was supposed to be updating but just couldn't find the words for.

Only a little over a year ago, his pitiful, boring life was traded out for a new one- a terrifying, dangerous, exhilarating one with a seemingly heartless -yet genius- madman by the name of Sherlock Holmes.

Only a little over a year ago, this madman simultaneously became his flatmate, his best friend. He became both his sense of security and cause of anxiety and adrenaline rushes. He became his cure to loneliness, cure to his psychosomatic limp.

Only a little over three days ago, he became a murderer, a fake.

Only a little over three days ago, he became a liar.

He became heartbreak.

So what was normal for John now? After living with Sherlock for over a year, the line began to blur. He had grown accustomed to waking up at 3 a.m. to melancholic notes from Sherlock's violin. He had grown used to silence for days on end after they solved a case. He had, in fact, lived for the few days of reprieve. He had lived for the lack of sleep for days while they tried desperately to solve whatever case either fell into their lap from John's blog, or Lestrade threw at them.

John wasn't sure how to go about daily life. At least not yet.

It was only through the urging of both Mrs. Hudson and Harry that John made the first step toward recovery and set up an appointment with his therapist. He felt like it would be a waste of his time and money, going in there to talk about something that he knew he couldn't fully talk about. He didn't see the point in telling her all about what had transpired when all she'd do is tell him the obvious: He's grieving, he's in shock, he's angry.

It all came down to that, in the end.

John _was _angry. He was angry at Lestrade for buying into the lies. He was angry at himself for not being there to help Sherlock. He was angry at Moriarty for setting Sherlock up, for causing this.

Obviously.

But it seemed like, most of all, he was angry at Sherlock himself. Sherlock had run into a problem that he couldn't fix himself- Moriarty had defeated him, and he took the only way out that was probably available to him in his defeat, his shame, his crushed ego. It was probably the only escape his pure frustration and desperation allowed him to see.

A piece of John, however, wanted to hope that this was all an act. He hopelessly believed that Sherlock would come back from the dead and tell him all the dramatics, his grief, it was all for nothing because here he was, safe and sound and _alive. _A piece of John hoped fervently for this, and for that, he was angry- angry because Sherlock's brilliance made it seem so plausible.

John was through with sitting around, stewing in his hurt, his rage. With a sigh, he stood up from his chair, took a look around, then grabbed his coat and headed out the door. As pointless as he felt this therapy session would be, he knew it was somehow a step in the right direction. It was his first steps toward at least handling his misery.

For now, that was enough.


	5. Chapter 5

John told her everything; his psychiatrist. It really wasn't anything he had meant to do, but she provoked him. She had asked him what happened, why he was there after a year of absence. He was frustrated by this, questioning her competence, her intellect. The fact that she couldn't figure it out after the news had been playing nothing else these past three days made him question everything about her.

"You _know _why I'm here." He said, a hint of contempt, of exasperation and maybe panic at having to give her a recap.

She still insisted on hearing it- every bloody, sordid detail.

Tell her? Say it out loud, even though she already knew? Oh, this was sadism, he was sure of it. Tell her? How could he possibly get the words out? How could he possibly say it out loud when he could barely think it? How could he say it out loud when he knew that saying it aloud made it that much more real?

But their stare-down couldn't last forever, and with resignation, John took a breath. His heart was pounding, his throat constricting.

"I'm here because-" He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. "…my best friend, Sherlock Holmes… is dead." He could barely get the words out, it hurt that much to say them. But he forced them out, and instantly regretted it- suddenly, the reality of it all sunk in a little bit more. Suddenly, his insistence that Sherlock would one day come back seemed as far-fetched to him as it had seemed to everyone else he told it to. With a shake of his head, he realized this was permanent, and running from it wasn't doing him any favors.

The truth had hit him right in the chest, knocked the breath, the life, the hope out of him. He could feel the tears he refused to shed start pricking at his eyes. His throat was still constricted. In a flurry of emotions as well as anxiety over what was plummeting onto him, John started talking. He didn't know if it would help or hurt in the long run, but he couldn't stop himself. He began telling her the story, all the way from the beginning, and couldn't force himself to shut up.

The words, painful as they were, needed to come out. So he let them.

* * *

"There's stuff that you wanted to say but didn't say it."

He had finally ceased talking, had told the entire bloody story, and just stared at his therapist as she stared right back at him.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Say it now," She urged gently.

Talking had helped him, he'd admit that to himself. The way the words tumbled out was, in fact, cathartic. But all of the things he withheld were for Sherlock and Sherlock only.

"No. I'm sorry. I can't." His voice was cracking again. He didn't want to keep doing this. He didn't want to keep fighting the tears and loneliness and utter terror at the reality of what was happening. He needed to bury it. Bury it along with Sherlock and his mysteries and selfishness. Bury it along with what had lost, what had been taken from him.

* * *

He found himself back at 221 B Baker Street. He couldn't think of the flat as home anymore. Without Sherlock, it wasn't a home- it was just a dark, dingy flat that could have serious potential if it weren't for the mess, the smell of dead things rotting in the fridge, of chemicals from spilled experiments. It could be a lovely flat if it weren't for the stupid bloody smiley face on the wall or the bullet holes surrounding it.

For him, that's what used to make it a home.

It wasn't the same endearing, charming wreck of a flat without Sherlock stalking manically through the rooms, wreaking some sort of havoc, his dressing gown sweeping behind him.

John missed him more than he thought he could ever miss anyone; more than he cared to admit. And being in that flat did not help his mental state. Every time he sat in his chair, he'd turn to the couch and expect to see Sherlock lounging in it, stretched across the whole, his lanky limbs hanging off. He'd walk by Sherlock's bedroom door and knock once, twice, three times and wait for the sound of his irritated voice telling him to sod off, he's busy.

John just couldn't live there anymore. Not for the time being, anyway. He gathered up a few of his things- just the current necessities- and packed them all up. A hotel room for a while would do just fine. At least until he could either bring himself to go back, or find a new flat.

But who would ever want him as a flatmate?

The bitter irony of the thought tugged at the corners of his lips as well as his heartstrings.

Yes, he definitely needed to change up his setting for a week or two, if every thought would be like this.

With a heavy heart, he picked up his bag, stepped through the doorway, and walked away, shutting the door to 221 B Baker Street behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

The hotel he managed to find wasn't much. It was empty. It had the generic hotel room smell, the generic scratchy sheets on the bed. Everything was plain and uniform and such a relief and a torment all at once. The only problem was that the whole reason he had left 221 B was because it was too painful to be reminded of Sherlock with every move he made, every thought he had... and yet, here he was, still thinking about him. As he stared at the hard, creaky bed, he could imagine Sherlock laying across it, trying to find a position that made it at least almost as comfortable as he felt when he was on his couch. John could too easily imagine Sherlock whining endlessly about the choice of hotel and how John should have let _him _be in charge, because he could have found a much better one.

John is roughly pulled out of his near-hallucination by the sound of his phone ringing. He knew, without checking the caller ID, that it was Mrs. Hudson. The funeral would be later that afternoon, and she had been trying to talk him into going with her. Soft spot though he had for her, his answer, each and every time, was a solid _no. _

He thought of the last conversation he had had with her.

* * *

_"You know that his funeral is tomorrow? A funeral, for him. Can you imagine the sorts that might turn up to that?" She was trying to cope with soft, tasteful humor, but John wouldn't even look at her. Instead, he just slouched in his chair, picking at the arm of it, ignoring Mrs. Hudson standing awkwardly next to him. John had shut off the moment he heard the word 'funeral.'_

_"No one." _

_"Pardon?" She was taken aback by his rough voice. _

_John finally looked up at her. "The 'sorts' that would turn up to his funeral." He shook his head bitterly. His voice was flat. "No one's going, Mrs. Hudson. He alienated everyone. I wouldn't be surprised if the only ones to show up would be you and Mycroft." He spit out the last word. The name of the older Holmes brother left a bad taste on his tongue. _

_"And you too, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice was hopeful. She already knew what he was going to say. _

_No movement. He just kept picking, picking, picking at the armrest on his chair. "I'm not going."_

_"But... surely you can't mean that? This is your last chance to say goodbye." _

_John stood up and walked away from her, grabbing his coat and heading out the door. _

_"Bastard can sod off," He said as loudly and angrily as he could. "I don't have a bloody thing to say to him." _

* * *

Now, phone ringing, John contemplated not answering. He couldn't do that to poor Mrs. Hudson, though. Every so often, he had to remind himself that he wasn't the only one grieving the loss of that wonderful, maddening, callous, selfish man.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

"Have you reconsidered, dear?" Her voice was warm, but there was also decisiveness in her tone. She could read him like an open book, it seemed.

There were a few beats of silence before he sighed in defeat.

"I don't think I can handle this, Mrs. Hudson. I don't think I can stand to see everyone else grieving, I don't think I can stand getting there and seeing how few people will be there because he _deserves better than that, _pretentious git though he was. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I just can't do it."

She sighed and was silent for a moment. "It's okay, I understand. We don't have to go for the funeral. We can leave for the cemetery after the funeral finishes. But I know you'll regret it if you don't go. I don't believe for one second that you don't have anything to say, and speaking your piece could help."

John took a moment to think.

"Okay. Let me know when you'd like to leave."

* * *

The sight of the grave had taken him aback, and once again he felt the heart-wrenching clarity that this was real. This was truly happening. He couldn't take his eyes off of the tombstone, dark and shining and ominous, just as Sherlock had been. Mrs. Hudson had already left, deciding John needed a moment. He whirled through a few different things, words tumbling out of his mouth. He thought he was done, but as he walked away, another thought struck him and he abruptly turned back around.

"One more thing. One more miracle for me, Sherlock. Don't be... dead." He felt the familiar tug of a tight throat and threatening tears and breathed in. "Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it- stop this." He brandished an accusatory finger at the grave that he couldn't bring himself to accept. Head bowed, hand covering his face, he allowed himself to cry. Just for a moment, he felt his shoulders shake before he straightened up, grit his teeth, and stiffly walked away.

His pleas would forever go unnoticed, unanswered. There would be no miracle. Sherlock was dead. Death was permanent. Sherlock would not be coming back- ever. It didn't matter what he wished for, hoped for, insisted would happen. Even now, after his death, Sherlock still managed to overshadow John's wants and needs for his own selfish purposes.

As John hurried out of the cemetery, he decided he had a new resolve. He would not allow himself to cry. He would not allow this to destroy him. He would continue his therapy sessions, go back to work, and stay in 221 B Baker Street because _that was his home_, and he couldn't allow that to be taken from him, too. He knew that, eventually, he would be okay. Hopefully, one day in the near future, this gaping hole inside him would be stitched up and on the mend.

The only way for him to do that would be to work through it. And if that didn't work, he would just push it down, simply block it all out. If anything, he had learned that from Sherlock. He had picked up how simple it could be to shut everything off.

* * *

For weeks, John's resolve held. He didn't shed a tear, didn't allow himself to think about Sherlock. On the occasion he did, he instantly shoved away the sharp pain that came along with it. He was doing well, keeping his guard up, handling everything, getting on with his life.

He was doing well. With everything.

But it was finding the first of Sherlock's notes that was his undoing.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I do apologize- I felt that this one may have been a little dry, but necessary. Hopefully it picks up a little more! As always, my thanks to anyone reading, reviewing, and/or following. It is truly appreciated and helps keep me going with this thing. _

* * *

It was quite by accident that John came across the notes Sherlock had left behind, though it took him quite a while to fully notice them. It really wasn't uncommon for there to be paper scattered across the flat, Sherlock's hurried handwriting scribbled across the scraps and pages, so of course John would come across numerous notations and ramblings when he finally got around to cleaning the flat. At first, he didn't think anything of it. That was, at least, until he found himself snooping through all of Sherlock's case files.

Yes, it was normal for John to find random verbal doodles all over the flat.

These, however… these were different.

These were unsettling and specific.

* * *

_MORIARTY-_

In big, bold letters, Sherlock had written the name on an envelope. He couldn't figure out if the fact that it was on an envelope was coincidence or intentional. An envelope. Why an envelope? If it had been purely coincidental, he needn't dwell on it.

That was all that the first one had read, and there had been nothing inside it, so John wrote it off as just more of Sherlock's writing gibberish. He thought that perhaps it had been written down after they finished closing up the case dealing with the Pink Lady, which was, after all, the first time the name had been so much as uttered to Sherlock. He was obsessed for a time, trying to figure out who –or what- Moriarty was. It was an all-consuming fascination, especially in the time period before he materialized into a person rather than an idea, so it made sense for one of Sherlock's written babblings to have been something as simple yet complex as Moriarty's name, and his name alone.

In hindsight, Sherlock's eagerness to unlock the enigma that was Moriarty triggered painful regret to settle in John's stomach. If only they had known…

John, to save his sanity, threw away the useless scrap of paper and tried his best not to think on it further. It didn't mean anything, after all.

* * *

He tried to tell himself that, but it didn't stop his heart from racing, and it didn't stop him from exploring the unorganized stacks with a new fervor. He kept hoping that maybe he would be lucky enough to find something that Sherlock had overlooked (impossible) or something that Sherlock had discovered but didn't bother to bring up to anyone else (more likely) because he just _always _had to keep up that stupid air of mystery until he solved the case and unveiled all of his brilliant deductions.

Heart pounding, hands shaking, John went through every single sheet of paper, every single notebook page, waiting for something to reveal itself to him.

* * *

The second one he found was a little more blatant.

_You know you cannot win this one. You have, in the past, been nothing more than a simple preoccupation. You were a challenge, yes. You were entertainment, yes. But now, you have made this personal. I will crush you like the spider you are. This is no longer a game. _

John found that one a few minutes after the envelope, only a short stack of paper below. His stomach knotted up. It had been written, no doubt, after the confrontation at the pool. John was more surprised at Sherlock's defensiveness of him than he thought he would have been. Of course he was surprised, though- how many times did Sherlock show that he was upset about something, that he actually gave a damn about people?

The anomaly of caring aside, why had he written it? John was stumped. Between the note and the envelope, the only option presenting itself was that he had planned on sending it to Moriarty. But why a handwritten note in an envelope? Why not a text, as he always preferred?

_You have made this personal._

Was it for the sake of keeping it personal? Was it so it couldn't be traced back to him?

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. That was it. Sherlock had planned on threatening him, on going after him, and didn't want it to be traced back to him the way a text would have been.

"Oh, Sherlock... What did you get yourself into? What were you hiding?"

* * *

It was several hours and four cups of tea later that John even tried to find anything else. It had been two months since Sherlock's death, two months since John shut down and tried to rid himself of his grief, and having all of the new information and theories thrown onto him was overwhelming beyond words. However, overwhelming as it may have been, that didn't mean that he wasn't desperate to dig deeper, figure out what was going on. He needed this more than he could have ever explained even to himself. He wasn't sure if it was to chase the excitement that had been missing in his life, or to attempt to catch at least a glimpse of Sherlock's secrets, hold onto a piece of him.

John had been doing so well keeping his head and getting on with his life; He had been functioning like a normal human being and living a normal life. But the fact of the matter was that he _wasn't _a normal human being, and he _didn't want _to lead a normal life. He felt it should be okay, every so often, to reach for the life he had tasted for that short year. He felt he was entitled, every so often, to chase the madness that had made him feel so alive. He may not have been willing to go out and solve cases for Lestrade, or even to start his blog back up again. But this... having his own side project, keeping his nose clean but trying to figure out what the person dearest to him had killed himself over, well, that he couldn't let go just to maintain a normal life that he didn't even truly want.

With a new fervor, John threw himself back into the papers, the scraps, the folders and files and notebooks. He read everything, organized the case files, the ramblings, the scraps of nonsense. Hours, he spent engrossed in everything, desperation to find something, _anything, _gnawed at him. He was about to give up when something caught his eye. As he looked up toward the mantle from his place on the floor, he saw it: a piece of paper sticking out from the bottom of Sherlock's blasted "pet" skull. John leaped to his feet, ignoring the spasm of pain his muscles screeched at him in protest at standing up too quickly, and snatched the skull up, revealing the folded up piece of notebook paper tucked inside.

With shaking hands, he plucked it out and unfolded it. _Don't get your hopes up, Watson. This is nothing. This is nothing. This is nothing. _He forced his mind to repeat it over and over and over, trying not to feel too hopeful that he had found something useful or meaningful.

His heart stopped when he read what was inside.

"That..." John's voice was barely above a whisper. "That _bastard_!_"_


	8. Chapter 8

_John- _

_If you've found this, I've most likely been dead for quite a while. If it hasn't been very long, I applaud you for exceeding my expectations. Again. I'm writing this in a hurry, so let me be brief and to the point: Moriarty MUST be stopped, and I plan to be the one to do it. Obviously. Should the unlikely event that I fail occur, then I sincerely hope that you or Lestrade are able to pick up where I've left off. Since Lestrade should be coming to arrest me soon, I find it unlikely that he will go after him. But you, my dear blogger, you have everything right in front of you. You haven't given up on me thus far, and for that, I applaud you, I thank you, and I put my (perhaps foolish) faith in you that you can do this. _

_-SH_

_(By the way, I'll be making it very clear to Mycroft that everything is to go to you after my death. 221 B included. Should you want it, it's yours, along with all of my "junk," as you call it.)_

_(Don't throw away my skull.)_

"That bastard knew!" John was incredulous. _I'll be making it very clear to Mycroft that everything is to go to you after my death. _He hadn't said "in the event of my death." No, he had said "after my death." Sherlock knew, he expected it, he planned on it, even. John rubbed his eyes and groaned. For the last few months, he had believed that Sherlock only jumped to escape the lies. Moriarty may have been dead, but Sherlock knew that in a sense, Moriarty had beaten him. He destroyed Sherlock, put him in a position that even he himself could never get out of.

But it wasn't desperation. It wasn't a last minute panicked decision.

He had planned it.

John backed into the wall, found himself slouching down it, landing on the floor rather roughly. He was so shocked that he couldn't even focus on Sherlock's unreasonable worry about his damned skull, or the insults, or the fact that there was actually a little bit of sentiment in the letter.

"Well, you beat each other, Sherlock. Moriarty's dead, so I suppose that lets me off the hook. At least I don't have to worry about disappointing you with my subpar brain once again."

Suddenly, unbidden, an obvious detail arose in his mind. _I'll be making it very clear to Mycroft_.

Mycroft.

Mycroft knew, too.

John felt his hand constrict as he crumpled the note up into a ball. He angrily threw it, but, being paper, it didn't get very far and therefor didn't give him the satisfaction he was hoping for. Angry, frustrated, he clenched his hand against the skull, brought his arm back, preparing to throw it against the wall.

_Don't throw away my skull. _

With a strangled yell, John resisted. He set the damned skull back where it belonged and dropped his head in his hands, fingers tugging at his hair. "Why, why, _why?_" He yelled, his voice reverberating through the lonely flat. "_Bloody Holmes brothers,_" He seethed through gritted teeth.

He took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Mycroft.

_Did you really think that I wouldn't figure it out? I want answers. If there isn't a car waiting for me within the next 10 minutes, I'll be hunting you down. Don't test me right now. _

His index finger hovered over the "send" button for a moment. For a brief hesitation, he wondered if it was a good idea to send such a forward, bold text to a man as powerful as Mycroft. It only lasted a moment, though, before he bit the bullet and hit send.

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_Don't threaten, Doctor Watson. It's unbecoming. A car will be there in less than five minutes. –MH_

Less than five minutes. That meant that John was under the surveillance of Mycroft. It was expected and unexpected all at the same time. What purpose could he possibly have to keep tabs on John now, even after… Well. Even _after. _

He gathered his coat, put his shoes on. By the time John stepped outside, the car was there. He got inside, sat down with a heavy sigh. The whole drive there, he didn't even glance at Anthea; He chose to ignore her just as much as she had always ignored him. As the car slowed to a stop in front of yet another seemingly abandoned building, John hastily unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out of the car.

He didn't need to get very far into the building before he saw Mycroft as he nearly always saw him during these little meetings- standing there, waiting, leaning on that stupid umbrella of his.

"So, I'm here," John called to Mycroft before even reaching him. "Start explaining."

"My, my, pushy, are we? Tell me, Doctor. What is it that I am supposed to be explaining?"

"You know damn well what."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him, then looked down at his umbrella. "I really don't. Enlighten me."

John paused a moment, grimaced, then took a deep breath. "Did you sell him out? Your brother? We've already had the discussion about how the mess with Moriarty framing Sherlock was mostly your fault. So what about this?"

Mycroft's eyes flashed anger, but his voice remained dry. "I hope you aren't suggesting that I killed my own brother."

"Nope. But I know you knew what he was planning." John brought out the note and brandished it at the man before him. "It says it all right here. You knew he was going to die."

"I didn't know he was going to kill himself."

John was momentarily floored by the matter-of-fact way Mycroft had when speaking of his only brother taking his own life. The brilliant Holmes brothers, so cold and detached.

As soon as John got over his shock, he spoke. "Nope. Maybe you didn't know that much detail. But he talked to you about his death. He told you what he wanted you to do with all of his things, his money, everything. He told you, which means that you were either in on it, or you knew what could happen and didn't bother to stop it. You, one of the most powerful men out there; You, who _bribed me _to keep an eye on him because you were so concerned… you couldn't be bothered to so much as lift a finger."

"Ah, but Doctor Watson, how do you know that I really was involved, that I knew anything? You say it's because you've been informed I knew what he wanted to be done with his belongings. How do you know that he didn't tell me all about that long before even he knew what he would do?"

For just a moment, John wavered. For just a moment, he doubted. He finally shook his head. "No. Sherlock may have been brilliant, but he wasn't very good at thinking ahead. He also seemed to think he was untouchable. Unless he knew he was going to die, he wouldn't have bothered setting his affairs in order. And you know him well enough to have picked up on why, even if he didn't tell you."

Mycroft looked surprised for a moment that his attempt to sway John didn't work. "Very good. I'm impressed. My brother always did say you were smarter than you seemed." John frowned at that, but left it alone. "At any rate, you're right. I knew."

"And you didn't care enough to stop it?" Hearing him state it so bluntly brought on a new wave of rage. "He was your brother, for crying out loud! And I thought _he _was heartless. Sod this, I don't know why I bothered. I'm leaving." John turned and began to walk away. He could feel his limp coming on, but did his best to shake it off, knowing it was only a product of the stress.

"Doctor, wait." Mycroft's voice rang out through the empty building.

John turned, exasperated, infuriated. "For what?"

"Don't you want to know why he did it?"


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Wow guys, this is the longest one I've posted thus far. It took me a few extra days to finish this, and in the course of an hour it went from only a couple paragraphs to... well, **this **monstrosity. Hope you all enjoy it! As always, thank you for any views, reviews, follows, etc. -V_

* * *

"You know? You know that much?" John barely recognized his own voice. It was a low, rough whisper. It was the sound of a hungry curiosity, of tentative desperation. He didn't want to allow himself to hope. Would Mycroft really lie to him about something so severe, something so important? He really couldn't see why he would, but the idea that he could be this close to finally knowing _something_…

"Yes, of course." Mycroft's answer was so infuriatingly matter-of-fact that John briefly considered hauling his fist right into that smug face.

The thought was very, _very _brief.

John regained his composure, straightened up, and looked Mycroft dead in the eye. "You didn't only know that he might die, but you knew _why?_" There was a pause while Mycroft stared right back at John and waited for him to continue on, as he knew he would. "Wait. That means you knew that he wasn't just thinking he was going to die. You knew he was planning on killing himself." He wasn't asking a question.

Mycroft nodded his head once. The move was so quick and so slight that John wasn't entirely sure he saw it at all. "Yes, I knew that, as well."

"Jesus, Mycroft. I knew you were cold, but this. _This _is a new low, even for someone in the Holmes family. I don't think even Sherlock would have been such a-"

Mycroft's eyes flashed angrily as he cut him off. "Doctor Watson, I'd suggest you stow away your disrespectful accusations. Bite your tongue before you say something that could put us both into an unfortunate situation." The vague threat in his words made John take his advice. He didn't try to talk at all as he watched Mycroft clench and unclench his jaw.

"Now," Mycroft continued. "My patience is growing thin and I have more important things to be doing rather than standing here chatting with you about such tired subjects. Would you like for me to enlighten you or not?"

Suddenly, John wasn't sure if he did even want to know anymore. He had dedicated an entire afternoon to this ridiculous task of… of what? Looking through a dead man's belongings? What was he trying to accomplish? For that matter, did he even think he _could _accomplish _anything_, or was he just chasing a ghost, opening old wounds for his own masochistic reasons?

He just didn't have any answers. He had no idea why he was going after this information that most likely led nowhere. Maybe it was to see the battlefield again. Maybe, deep down, he still hadn't come to terms with Sherlock's death.

Maybe, deep down, a piece of him was still clinging to the idea that it wasn't real. It couldn't be real, couldn't be permanent.

"No, Mycroft," He finally said with a sigh. "No, I don't think I want to know, after all."

Mycroft feigned surprise. Of course he had known all along that John wouldn't be able to go through with accepting the information. "Oh really? Giving up so easily, even after being so adamant? Even after all that time you've wasted on this particular 'project' already?"

"I wouldn't consider it giving up," John clarified. "I would consider it deciding to move on. If Sherlock had really been planning on dying, if he had truly been planning his suicide and honestly wanted to go… well, what more do I need to know? I think I'm better off not knowing his reasons to welcome death."

"On the contrary, Doctor Watson, he did not welcome it, nor did he _want_ to go."

John was getting way too exasperated to be dealing with the old Holmes Theatrics. He rubbed his hand over his face and held back yet another sigh. "I'm tired, Mycroft, and you've already told me that you have places to be. Could we cut the cryptic hints?"

Mycroft smiled for a brief moment. "Very well. I'll just get to the point then, shall I? The fact of the matter is that, while I may not know details of what happened on that rooftop, I know what Sherlock had planned for. Most of what I know is what he told me: That Moriarty was leaving him clues about Sherlock's impending death. Some of my sources have also figured out that Moriarty was clever enough to use... shall we say 'leverage'?"

"Leverage?" John swallowed hard. His mouth, his throat were dry. He didn't pick up on things nearly as quickly as Sherlock had, but he was starting to get it. He had a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He suspected what was coming next. He didn't need Mycroft to say it.

"Yes, leverage. I have reason to believe it may have been Sherlock's understanding that, were he to not die, others would die in his place. I have reason to believe that Moriarty was so incredibly obsessed, so desperate to defeat him, that he was willing to do whatever it took to destroy Sherlock. The stipulation was that either he jumps or..." Mycroft let the sentence hang. "That's the only thing all the facts could possibly point to, at least." He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "This is precisely why I always warned him _not to get attached," _he said in a clipped voice.

John felt like he was going to be sick. He knew he didn't want to know the answer to Sherlock's death, but this... this was entirely worse than anything he could have imagined. He pinched the bridge of his nose, clamped his eyes shut tight. "Jesus, Mycroft. How could you possibly know this? You're going off of some vague information to draw a conclusion that, frankly, seems completely unlike-"

"Enough!" Mycroft snapped at John before he could finish his sentence. It was the first time John had ever seen Mycroft this angry. He had never seen him lose his composure quite like this. "You really have no idea, do you? You haven't figured out just how much influence I truly have, or how formidable my 'eyes' all over the city are, have you? Aside from the simple deductions I have made on my own, I have exhausted all of my resources. I don't have theories, Doctor Watson, I have facts."

John could only stare as Mycroft regained his stoic demeanor, gave him a polite nod, and left him alone in the abandoned building. John's mind was blank as he walked out of the building and got into the car. His mind was numb, pure white noise as he pulled up to 221 B, got out of the car, and hauled himself into his flat.

This knowledge not only floored him, but hurt him, made him physically ill. What was the last thing he had said to Sherlock, aside from the very few words he was able to push out of his mouth while on the phone with him in those last seconds? What was the last thing he said to his face?

_You... machine. __  
_

Machine. He had called him a machine. He had been so angry, so surprised at the detachment that was much too cold even for Sherlock. He didn't understand how the same man who had thrown a man out of a window repeatedly over causing some trauma and minor wounds on Mrs. Hudson could have possibly not given a damn that she was dying.

In light of this new information courtesy of Mycroft, it dawned on John that Sherlock planned much more than he had realized. He planned the phone call specifically to get John out of there, away from Sherlock so he could sneak off to meet Moriarty.

And then he had proceeded to jump off of a bloody building, to _kill himself_, to save... who? No one would have managed to get to Mycroft, no matter who tried. Mrs. Hudson and John were the only other ones truly close to him.

John doubled over, thinking he was going to be sick, as it hit him. Sherlock took his own life to save his. John called him a machine, and less than an hour later...

"Oh God. Oh, _Jesus,_" He groaned as his knees gave out. He crumpled to the floor, hands grasping at his chair, arms wrapping around the arm of it. Everything was whirling. This guilt. How could he deal with this guilt? How could he deal with knowing that not only was his best friend dead, but it was because of him? How could he deal with knowing that his last real words to Sherlock were hurtful ones?

John fought the dizziness, the nausea. He closed his eyes against the spinning room. What he couldn't escape, however, was the blame, the guilt, the tightness in his chest.

_You machine. _

It only took one more replay of that scene for him to come undone. For the first time since Sherlock's death, the first time in years, he let go, released the constricting pain in his chest, and cried. Really, truly cried. Everything he had refused to actually feel in the past two months came screeching into his brain and exited through his tears.

For the first and last time over Sherlock's death, he cried.

And then there was darkness; there was the sleep of the dead, finally crashing on him after two months of nearly nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

To say that John Watson backslid would be a major understatement.

While he had been mourning the loss of Sherlock already, Mycroft's information sent John spiraling for nearly two months. Days, weeks went by where he felt as cold and emotionless as the machine he had accused Sherlock of being. He'd spend his days holed up in the flat either staring off into space, reading and re-reading Sherlock's case files, or simply wandering from room to room. His nights were spent doing much of the same after he'd lay in bed for hours, fruitlessly trying to sleep. The insomnia might have bothered him under normal circumstances, but in the situation he found himself in, it was almost a blessing. The intense lack of sleep left him feeling numb, empty- he felt like he would just ghost through his days.

Sometimes, when his restlessness got the best of him and sleep would not come, he would take to the streets, hoping to tire himself out. Every so often it worked, but most of the time, he found himself wandering around outside for hours, barely even realizing what he was doing; he was that sleep deprived, that detached. Everything felt like a dreamlike state.

He welcomed it with open arms.

After about four months of battling both numbness and depression, John woke up one day feeling different. It was by no means happiness, it was by no means peace. But it wasn't depression, and it wasn't _nothing_, so he counted it as progress. At his next therapy appointment, he brought it up to his therapist.

She was pleased, but wary. She had watched John grieve, hit depression, shove all his feelings away, appear better for a little while, and then completely crash. She had watched John come in, completely destroyed by the guilt he insisted on feeling, and no matter what she said, it didn't make a difference to him.

To say that John Watson had hit rock bottom would be an understatement.

However, it was after the first month of being at the bottom that John began to feel just a little better. In the weeks after that, he managed to have some genuinely good days. He managed real smiles, real laughter. Nearly three months later, he found himself meeting up with coworkers outside of work. With Sherlock's money being sent in from Mycroft, John never needed to pay rent and he never needed to work for food money, but he found it to be a good distraction.

By the fourth month, he was actually enjoying his job and could manage entire days not thinking about Sherlock.

John was doing so well, and pleased his therapist. And yet she still worried.

Of course, things weren't as wonderful as John acted like they were.

Of course, he still hurt.

Of course, there were still nightmares.

* * *

"How are you sleeping, John?"

A dark look came over John's face. He had been so amicable lately, much more cheerful, but at the mention of the nightmares, his smile was always erased instantly. "Fine. I'm sleeping fine," He tried to brush it off.

The therapist raised her eyebrows at him. "Fine? You told me last week you were still having nightmares, and the dark circles under your eyes are telling me that this week isn't any different."

John sighed. "Fine, yeah, I suppose the nightmares are still happening. I don't always remember them, but Mrs. Hudson says every so often she wakes up to me yelling out."

"Yelling what, John?"

"Sherlock. Just 'Sherlock.' That's all it ever is."

"So you've been having nightmares about his death?"

John hesitated. "About his fall, yes."

She scrutinized him. "I'm a little confused. You've been doing so well, going through all of the steps, _healing _and _coming to terms_. I don't understand why now, suddenly, you aren't acknowledging it as his death or suicide."

"It's just hard to say it, still."

"It's been six months, John. Have you even tried to accept it?"

No, he hadn't. The truth of it was that one of the reasons he had been able to piece his life back together was because, once again, he was convincing himself that Sherlock wasn't actually dead. There were certain things Mycroft had said to him in their final conversation that John picked up on. Some of the things he said and the way he said them made John think Mycroft knew more than he was telling. Factor that in with the strange instances that occurred when Sherlock jumped- for instance, the sudden crowd that appeared out of absolutely nowhere, even though the streets were empty right before. It all seemed fishy.

"Have you been taking the pills I prescribed?"

"No."

"They'd help you, John."

"No," He insisted. "I don't need antidepressants. I'm fine."

She stayed silent for a moment while she glanced at the clock. "Well, that's all the time we have left for today." They both stood. "Will you at least consider the pills?"

His eyes met hers for the first time that session. "Yeah, sure," He lied with a smile.

* * *

John was truly, honestly feeling much better. He was no longer miserable. He wouldn't go so far as to call himself _happy_, necessarily, but then again, he hadn't even been happy _before _Sherlock.

Not before, not after. Only during.

To say that John missed Sherlock desperately would be an understatement.

However, John was piecing his life together, slowly but surely. He was coping. He had escaped the black depression that plagued him for months. Every so often, if he allowed himself to dwell on it, that lump of guilt would settle inside his stomach, his heart. Every so often, if the nightmares were vivid enough, he wouldn't be able to sleep for days. He was too terrified of reliving them to even try.

It wasn't even the nightmares of The Fall that were the worst.

No, the worst were the dreams that gave him hope.

The worst were the dreams where he'd be walking down the street when he would catch sight of a billowing coat, dark scarf knotted at the throat, dark unruly hair curling over the raised collar.

The worst were the dreams where he'd run, daring himself to hope. He would chase after the familiar figure, and when he would get close enough, he'd shout out the name that was still painful and too bitter to taste on his lips.

The worst were the dreams where the figure would turn, responding to the name instantly, reflexively, and John would see the pale face, light blue eyes of his best friend.

His nightmares about the fall haunted him, yes, but the dreams that played his unspoken hope against him... those were the ones he would deprive himself of sleep to avoid. It was too painful waking up, heart racing, realizing that he was still stuck there, that Sherlock was still -most likely- dead.

John had no idea by that point how to heal himself- to keep the hope he had been holding onto, or to try once more to accept Sherlock's death and move on?

It seemed like all of his attempts were futile. He resolved to let everything run its course.

And run its course, it did.

* * *

John was puttering around the flat, cleaning up a few things to occupy his mind. It had been weeks since he had any Sherlock related nightmares, but the night before broke his record streak. It was a little over seven months since The Fall, and things were almost back to normal. However, the day before, John found himself sitting in a cafe on his lunch break, staring at a man seated a few feet away from him. He frowned at the back of the man's head, resenting the dark curls and dark coat. He knew it wasn't Sherlock. He finally accepted Sherlock's death as permanent. However, the sight of his man, so similar to Sherlock, including his movements... well, it gripped his heart in a vice.

That night, he had his first nightmare in weeks.

It was one of the pseudo-hope nightmares again, only this time he heard Sherlock's voice, rather than seeing him. He woke up after he could have sworn he heard Sherlock calling his name and then bursting into laughter.

He knew it wasn't real, but crushing disappointment washed over him anyway.

The next morning, John needed to keep busy. He tidied up, organized things, packed away more of Sherlock's belongings, and finally brought himself to delete his bloody blog. It was a bittersweet moment for him, severing the last tie holding him to Sherlock. That is, until he heard his phone chime with an incoming text. Brow furrowed, he retrieved it and opened the message.

_-John Watson, I'm disappointed. why did you delete your blog? _

A fan of Sherlock's, most likely. It happened a lot, that people would approach him, wanting to hear more stories, seeming to ignore the obvious fact that he wouldn't -couldn't- talk about it.

He typed a message back.

_-No point in keeping it with no new cases. How did you get this number?_

Instantly, his phone chimed again.

-_You gave it to me. _

John racked his mind, trying to remember anyone he gave his number to recently. He came up with no recollections.

-_I'm sorry, I've no clue who this is, but sorry to disappoint you. The blog is gone, as is Sherlock. No use keeping it. _

For a moment, he actually felt maybe his message was a bit rude; he hadn't meant to come off as cross, as polite as he typically is. But this kind of thing always hit a nerve.

-_Gone? _

He sighed, exasperated.

-_Yes, gone. It's been over half a year since Sherlock died. Come off it and leave me alone. ___

When his phone went off promptly after that, John considered deleting it without opening it, but once again his politeness got the best of him. He opened the message blinking at him, and felt his blood run cold.

_-No, no. Not gone. Never gone. Simply absent for a while. -SH_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thank you to all who followed, favorited, read, and reviewed (those reviews are wonderful to read, guys, thank you for the encouragement!) I'm in a bit of a rut with this at the moment. It seems that these eleven chapters have nearly written themselves, but now, after this one, it's not running so smoothly. That being said, this one as well as the last one pretty much wrote themselves. So, you're not allowed to be mad at me. Blame the characters. They're not mine, obviously, so I can't tell them what to do._

* * *

Simultaneously, John's stomach dropped while his heart leaped. He knew it was some kind of sick joke, but that didn't mean the sight of the familiar text signature was any less welcome.

Or maybe it was _very _unwelcome, but John was much too frazzled to focus on that part.

With shaking hands, he hit the reply button and began formulating a response. Due to both his trembling as well as his muddled, racing thoughts, it took him twice as long to tap out a sufficient message.

After staring at his message for a while, though, he let out a shaky breath, deleted his text, and retyped the simplest yet most important question he could think of.

_Sherlock?_

John waited five minutes before he shook his head, tore his eyes from the screen, and pocketed his phone. He waited fifteen before pulling out his phone, rereading the texts, feeding the nervous fire in the pit of his stomach. It was forty five minutes before he couldn't take it anymore and tapped out another message.

_You know what? Don't text me again. This isn't funny in the least. Sod off, whoever it is._

He didn't even hesitate before hitting the send button, his thumb jabbing with perhaps a little too much force on the delicate touch screen. With a clenched jaw and racing heart, he glared at the phone for just a moment more before shutting it off and tossing it carelessly onto the couch. He was finally getting his life on track. He wasn't going to let his world turn upside down –again- by some dick journalist looking for a scoop or some punk kids trying to prank him.

John grabbed his coat and wrenched the front door open before turning back to look at his phone nestled on the musty cushions. He just couldn't let it go. Internally scolding himself for his ridiculous inability to move on from actions and subjects that could be potentially damaging, potentially crippling, he walked to the couch and snatched the phone back.

_Maybe it's just time for a new number, _he thought to himself as he shoved the phone into his pocket and walked out of the flat.

As he walked to a nearby café- his favorite one to kill time in- he hoped that with the blog being taken down, he wouldn't have to worry about sadistic nut jobs prank calling and prank texting him. It had only happened once or twice, but it was never anything quite like what had just happened. Never before had he received a message from someone sick enough to claim they were Sherlock.

He realized with a wave of disappointment that this kind of vicious, appalling behavior from someone didn't even surprise him anymore. He supposed he had Sherlock's cases and criminals to thank for that one.

* * *

John took his time eating, took his time with his two or three cups of coffee. He nursed his food and drinks for as long as he possibly could, just stalling. Enough time had passed since Sherlock's death and his breakdown for him to be okay in the flat, but after the brief moment of false hope, he couldn't shake an uneasy feeling about being there. He knew from experience that if he were to take his time getting back, he'd be fine when he finally did return, but it was taking longer than normal this time.

All through his meal, his procrastination, he kept glancing at his phone, which sat on the table next to his plate. It was still powered down. He kept forcing himself not to turn it on. John was unbearably curious to see if the unknown Sherlock impersonator had tried to text him again, but he knew better than to check. He ignored the tugging in his stomach. He ignored the uneasy feeling that nagged at him about going back to 221B.

* * *

John spent two hours walking around the city, wandering through his favorite areas, before he became agitated enough to sit down on his favorite park bench, wrestle his phone out of his pocket, and power it back on. It took a moment for it to turn back on, but once it did, his phone flooded with texts.

_John, don't be an idiot. -SH_

_Rather, don't be __**more **__of an idiot. -SH_

_I see. You've turned your phone off. Ignoring me? And you said __**I **__was the child. -SH_

__John was beginning to get mad at all of this. No, mad wasn't even the right word. Angry, furious, _pissed. _Who in the hell was getting off on this? He hit the reply button and quickly sent a message in reply.

_Whoever this is, you had better stop. I happen to know people in the position to have you arrested for harassment. _

It wasn't much of a threat, but John hoped that it would scare off any immature kid getting a kick out of this.

His phone chimed again.

_Fine. Don't respond. You're in danger. Get back to the flat. -SH_

__John couldn't help but feel as if that last one was a threat right back at him. He clutched the phone in a tight grip and continued walking. It was a few minutes before his phone chimed again.

_Don't make me involve Mycroft. You know how tiresome I find him. -SH_

__John had absolutely no idea who the hell this person was, or how they were able to know all of these little details. He ignored it, and considered turning it off again. Not even five minutes passed before the payphone nearest to him began ringing.

_Just a coincidence, _John thought to himself.

That was, until the sleek black car pulled to a stop right next to him.


	12. Chapter 12

The driver got out and, as per usual, opened the door for John, silently waiting. John stared back and forth between the driver and the open door for a moment before he scoffed. "Right, that's going to happen," He scoffed bitterly, sarcastically, as he turned and walked away.

Less than a minute later, his phone was ringing. The screen told him that it was exactly who he expected it to be. He considered not answering, but knew that that would just irritate Mycroft, who would surely proceed to do whatever he could to get John's attention.

And John wanted answers.

He didn't even greet the voice on the end. "Is he alive?" His voice was demanding. Not that he cared by that point.

"John. Hello to you, too."

"Mycroft." John's tone was quickly changing to one of warning.

"I'm sure I don't understand what it is that you're asking me."

John felt his pace quicken. It felt like he was racing through the streets by that point, his agitation showing in his walk. "Don't play dumb with me, Mycroft. Now tell me- _Is. He. Alive?"_

"Ah," His voice was full of false realization. "I take it that you are referring to Sherlock?"

"Yes," John answered tersely.

"No, he isn't. I've no idea why you would think such a ridiculous thing."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because someone claiming to be him has been texting me?"

"And you thought to automatically jump to the conclusion that it must be Sherlock, did you? You are so quick to believe he's back from the dead?"

John was not in the mood to be belittled. "I didn't jump to conclusions. He texted me, warning I'm in danger. He then threatened to sic you on me. Within five minutes, a car of yours is here to pick me up. It doesn't take a Holmes brother to deduce that."

There was a beat of silence. "You do understand how many people the two of you angered? There are many who would want to get to you in any way possible, I am sure."

"So that's it? You think this is just a prank?"

"A prank? Oh, not at all, Doctor Watson. I'd say something much more dangerous."

Dangerous. It was a word that had once meant everything to John. It used to hold intrigue and the promise of a thrill.

Now it was just a word.

John thought on it for a moment. "One of the texts said I was in danger. Why would they warn me?"

"Perhaps it's a helpful warning. Perhaps it is indeed a warning, but one of a more sinister nature. I have reason to believe that that may be the case. We've been keeping surveillance on you-"

"What a surprise," John muttered dryly. He wasn't even offended anymore, wasn't even annoyed. He had long ago surpassed the point of feeling invaded of privacy.

John could predict Mycroft's exasperated sigh seconds before it actually happened. "Why must you always insist on acting like a child?"

"Why do you treat me like one?"

Another sigh. "Would you like me to fill you in on everything, John? I can, but you may not like the answers. Do not forget, we've been through a conversation very similar to this one; You pried, I warned you, and it was horribly inconvenient for you, in the end."

"In-_inconvenient_? Is _that _what you're calling grief? Is _that_ what you call caring about someone?"

"Is that so hard to believe? Caring is not an advantage, John."

John scoffed. "So I've heard." He chuckled bitterly for a moment before allowing a miniscule wave of calm settle over him. "Fine. I don't want to know details. Except for one. Is Sherl-"

"No, of course he's not alive. You must stop holding onto false hope. He's gone- come to terms or expect to continue suffering as you have been. The choice, Doctor Watson, is all yours."

"Bye Mycroft." His voice was flat. He didn't wait for Mycroft to respond before hanging up on him. Once again, he was left with a feeling of loss. How could he keep ending up in the position of losing the same man over and over again? When would he manage to just shut it all down? And why did it seem like every single time he was managing just fine, something new popped up to attempt to destroy him?

His jaw began to ache, and he realized he had been clenching and unclenching it for a while. He couldn't decide who he was more angry at- Mycroft, for his callousness, or himself, for... for what, exactly? For getting his hopes up? How could he help it when-

His phone chimed, interrupting his inner turmoil.

_You shook him that easily? Impressive. -SH_

Before he even had the chance to decide whether or not he wanted to respond to that one, another two texts flashed up on his screen.

_Impressive, but disappointing. And predictable. You're warned of danger, yet you disregard it. -SH_

_And I see that the hint of your returned limp is gone entirely. -SH  
_

John spun around at the last text, heart racing, mind racing, eyes darting wildly across the landscape before him. Where could this person possibly be hiding? Parked car? One of the shops that lined the street? There was no way someone could have seen him walking down the sidewalk this whole way. Someone had to have been following...

It was at that moment that he noticed the cameras. The cameras that he knew Mycroft had access to. And if Mycroft had access... his conniving little brother most certainly could find a way to them, as well. Sherlock had proved on multiple occasions that he was not above stealing his brother's credentials to gain access. John didn't hesitate to try calling the number, but as he opened up the info, he saw, much to his dismay, that it was a restricted number.

Of course it was. Who would be thick enough to not block their number?

John rubbed his hand over his face and finally decided it was time to respond to whoever it was. Sherlock or not.

_Who is this? You can answer me anytime now. _

It didn't surprise John when, once again, he didn't receive a followup text straight away.

_Alright then, suit yourself. We'll do this the hard way. You obviously want to be secretive. Be secretive. I'll just have your number traced. _

It was a bluff. John didn't think that Lestrade- or anyone else at the Yard, for that matter- would help him with such a seemingly trivial task. His phone chimed only a minute or two after he hit the send button. He smirked into the nearest camera before turning and walking away, heading back home, pointedly not even checking the phone. He wanted to get the message across that he was not easily intimidated, and he refused to not have the upper hand. If it was someone trying to harm him, then his best bet was to make a point that he wasn't scared, and wasn't going to be taken down easily.

If it _was_...

God help him, he couldn't even think it.

If it _was _Sherlock, then... well, hopefully he could take the hint that John would find him.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: My apologies to anyone who has been waiting for this chapter. Things have become hectic, and the few times I tried to sit down to write this, nothing wanted to come out. _

* * *

Sherlock smiled to himself, satisfied, as he stared at the TV monitor, watching John walk away. He leaned back in his seat, eyes on the screen until John was no longer in sight. It was only a few short minutes after that he heard footsteps nearing from down the hallway; Quick, purposeful footsteps that sounded a tad bit too heavy, a tad bit too rushed to not be riled up.

He waited until the footsteps were stepping into the room. "Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled without turning.

"Are you happy with yourself, Sherlock?" Sherlock had been right. Mycroft's voice sounded bored, but he could hear the agitated edge to it.

He finally swiveled the chair to face his brother and flashed a brief smug smile. "Yes, quite."

Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. It was the closest he ever came to rolling his eyes. "You were so insistent that I help you keep an eye on him. You asked me to help you stay _dead _because it was imperative to your safety, as well as that of others." Sherlock could see that Mycroft was struggling to keep his composure. "Now, despite all that, you are running around, playing with Doctor Watson, hinting that you are alive, and creating even more of a mess for _me _to clean up. So tell me, Sherlock: at what point did you decide that your little... _games_... would be a good idea?"

"I'm _bored, _Mycroft. It's been nearly a year and yet you have managed to accomplish _nothing._ I'm running out of patience."

Mycroft's nostrils flared as he stared down Sherlock scornfully. He inhaled deeply, then squinted at his infuriating little brother. "So you thought it would be a good idea to... what, precisely? Are you truly doing this to relieve boredom?"

"Not just mine. His, too."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows a little. "You think he's bored, do you?"

Sherlock gave a quick nod. "If he wasn't, he wouldn't be investigating, pushing for answers that he isn't even sure are there."

"You do know most people do such things out of trivial, silly things such as grief, or desperation or denial?"

"John is not most people."

An almost smile pulled at Mycroft's lips. "True, but that does not mean he doesn't experience... _'normal' _emotions."

Sherlock was silent for a bit while they just stared at each other. He brought his fingers into a steeple, his signature move for when he was thinking hard. Through fingers pressed to his lips, he finally broke the silence. "He needs these games, these mysteries, just as much as I do, Mycroft. Even you have seen it- he missed the war because he craves the excitement. It's the only reason he stuck with me, I am sure."

"Even so, the fact still remains that it's imperative you remain dead until everything is sorted out. Are you _trying _to mess it all up?"

"_Bored, _Mycroft," Sherlock groaned as he threw himself back against the chair and flopped his arm over his eyes.

Mycroft sighed. "You are going to get yourself killed."

Sherlock's arm flew off of his face and he sat up straight, staring his brother dead in the eyes. "Good! Maybe if I reveal myself, the remainder of Moriarty's men will come after _me. _It would be the perfect way to lure them out and finally _finish this._ At least, if anything, it could be a chance at some real fun."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the sight of his insufferable older brother becoming increasingly exasperated with him. Which, of course, only made Mycroft more irritated. They stared at each other for a very long time before Mycroft finally turned to leave.

"I won't ask you again. Do _not _contact Doctor Watson again," He demanded, not even needing to turn to know that a smug smirk had worked its way up Sherlock's face. "I mean it, Sherlock. So help me..." Mycroft let his sentence trail off as he stepped through the doorway and rounded the corner.

* * *

John was done.

It had been two months since the initial contact with Maybe-Sherlock, and a month and a half since he had heard from him last. There were brief messages for a little while, but nothing of consequence. John tried, on multiple occasions, to set up a meeting. Every time he did though, it would be hours, maybe even days before he would receive another text. Even then, when he would finally receive a reply, it never said anything about arranging a meeting.

One day, he finally just stopped responding. A few texts came in in the course of a week, but eventually they ceased altogether, perhaps put off by the lack of response on John's end.

John was done with the game.

He was done trying to grasp at straws. He was _angry. _He had gone around in circles, thinking that he couldn't handle the crippling disappointment of this anonymous texter turning out not to be Sherlock. Then again, he was furious at the idea that it could be Sherlock. If it _was _him, that meant... Well, that meant a number of things. It meant he was alive, first off. That was all John had wanted for the entire year, but the knowledge that he had been not only lied to the entire year, but even taunted, _played with_, made him hope desperately that it wasn't Sherlock after all. Two months was much too long for any decent human being to toy with someone the way they had been toying with John.

It was so inhuman, so the thought that it could be Sherlock after all broke his heart. He was happy remembering Sherlock as, in John's own words, "the most human human being" he had ever met. So, of course, there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought that it could be Sherlock- his Sherlock, the Sherlock that he _knew _wasn't the coldhearted sociopath he told everyone he was. He didn't want to dwell on the doubt when he knew very well that Sherlock was not that heartless. He couldn't be.

_But he could, couldn't he? _The thought was intrusive, unbidden, and John brushed it away, refusing to acknowledge it.

_No, _he thought. _No, of course not._

* * *

Three months after the last contact with Maybe-But-Most-Likely-Not-Sherlock, John decided it was time to start being social again. It was time to date again. After all, he hadn't been on a date since... well, since the "boring school teacher," as Sherlock had not-so lovingly addressed his previous girlfriend. John couldn't even remember her name anymore.

He wished he felt bad about that, but he, for some reason, just couldn't.

So, it was a peaceful, uneventful Sunday evening that brought John to an equally peaceful restaurant with a woman he knew absolutely nothing about, other than the fact that he worked with her, she was very pretty, and they got on well on the occasion they did speak. John wasn't thrilled, he wasn't having the time of his life, necessarily, but it was definitely a lovely time with a lovely woman and some lovely food, so he allowed himself to just sit back, relax, and feel at ease in a way he hadn't for nearly a year.

They were eating very slowly, talking, laughing, enjoying each others company, when John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, barely even pausing before resuming conversation. About two minutes later, there were two more buzzes in quick succession. He would have continued to ignore them despite the immense curiosity, but his date smiled at him, having heard the vibration, and gestured at him.

"I'm sorry, let me just check those real quick and then I'll power it down," he said ruefully as he pulled out his phone.

"By all means," She said as she took a sip of wine, easy going smile on her face.

He brought up his inbox and clicked on the first message, then read through.

_John. I'm ready for that meeting you so adamantly suggested. -SH_

_221 B Baker Street. Come if convenient. –SH_

John's stomach lurched.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH_

His chest seized up.

He held his breath, waiting for the next message to pop up. It was inevitable, he knew. He knew what was coming.

It took a few minutes, but eventually it came through.

_Could be dangerous. –SH_

John didn't even hesitate before making up his mind to go. He didn't need any more ammunition than those four texts. He knew very well that he was already in danger. He knew very well that he could be walking right into a trap. He knew very well that there was a 1% chance of it actually being Sherlock, but a 99% chance that it would be one of the people who he and Sherlock had supposedly angered. Mycroft made allusions towards there being danger. John was intelligent enough to be full aware that this could very well be that danger rearing its ugly head.

He couldn't bring himself to ignore it.

He decided to take his chances. He had missed the danger, anyway. He almost couldn't function at all without it, despite his numerous, repeated attempts at normality. It just wasn't him.

He looked up at his date, smiling apologetically, meeting her eyes for only a brief moment before she sighed and set her napkin on her plate.

"It's okay," She sighed again. "Sarah warned me this might happen."

Sarah. Of course she'd say something, having been in this exact position.

"I had just hoped," She continued, "that maybe, with Sherlock gone and you not running around the city solving all those silly mysteries, maybe you wouldn't be pulling this kind of thing with your dates anymore."

"I'm sorry, really, I am. It's got nothing to do with any of that kind of thing," He lied. "It's just... there's been an emergency with my sister and I really should go to see her." More lies.

He wasn't sure if she believed him or not. She grimaced, and gestured from him to the front door of the restaurant. "By all means," She said once again. This time, however, a grim, disappointed, annoyed tone edged her voice where the carefree playfulness had been only minutes ago.

John knew he should have done more, should have stayed at least through the end of dinner. They were nearly finished eating, after all. He knew he should have waited, but instead, he jumped up from his chair, muttered one last apology, and darted out the front door. The flat was a few short blocks away from the restaurant, so he didn't bother with a cab. Instead, he sprinted most of the way home.

John had absolutely no idea what awaited him at 221 B, if anything.

But that wasn't about to stop the temptation of finding out what _could _be there.

* * *

Sherlock lay sprawled out across his sofa, lazily plucking at his violin, which he had been _extremely _pleased -and surprised- to find not only in the flat, but in plain view. John had stowed away quite a few of Sherlock's possessions, but not his violin. And not his skull, either, much to his delight.

He closed his eyes, head reclining on the armrest, waiting for the sound of John's heavy footfalls on the stairs, the sound of his key in the lock. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that John might not even come. He didn't want to admit that he had possibly let too much time pass for John to have stayed the same, and for Sherlock to be allowed to re-enter his life.

No, he didn't want to entertain the idea of any of that.

So, to distract himself, he continued fiddling around with his violin, going back and forth between simple slow plucking with his fingers, to picking up his bow and playing snippets of actual numbers. It was after twenty minutes, when he finally began to feel discouraged, that he heard the door downstairs open then slam shut. He waited, pausing from his absent strumming, while he listened to the rushed footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock could tell it was John, and he could tell that, while he was keeping up a quick yet steady pace, he was making a major effort not to sprint. His trepidation, his restrained excitement- it was all in the sound of his footsteps.

Finally, the sound of the key turning the lock, and the click as it was released.

Sherlock held his breath, trying to steady himself, trying to appear calm. He picked up his bow to resume playing, eyes closed, heart palpitating as the door opened.

There was nothing but the sound of his violin for a whole fifteen seconds until he finally ceased his playing, set his instrument on his stomach, and opened his eyes.

"Hello, John."


	14. Chapter 14

"No," John tried to breathe normally. Everything in him was frozen. "_No_."

Disappointment flickered on Sherlock's face, but only for a moment. "No? I thought you'd be pleased to see me, John. Was I really that bad of a flatmate? I suppose it may have been a bit of a relief. Managing a full night's sleep for a while must have been nice, but I never really thought that the late night cases and violin playing bothered you. In fact, I thought you rather enjoyed them, really –the cases, that is- but you did have the tendency to-"

"Sherlock- _Sherlock!_" John's voice was shaky, but firm. He was lightheaded, not entirely sure this was really happening, and entirely sure he wasn't in the mood to listen to Sherlock's internal dialogue turned external, voicing his impossible train of thought.

Sherlock's head snapped up from his violin, which he had been studying. "Yes?"

"You… how…" John shook his head. "You _jumped_. I _watched _you jump. I took your pulse, and there was absolutely _nothing _there. This… this can't be happening. It can't. I've finally lost it. Gone mental. I knew it was only a matter of time."

"Oh, my dear John. I promise I'm here. You found my letters, did you? I noticed, going through everything, that they were all in a new file. So you read them... But you didn't figure it all out? I thought for sure you'd have picked up on the hints I placed in them. Hmm. Perhaps I put too much faith in your intellect."

John stiffened. Even hallucination Sherlock was a callous jerk. This was too much. This was too realistic. He ran his hand down his face, suddenly aware of a headache coming on, overwhelming his dizziness.

Sherlock almost looked concerned about John's wobbling, his level of anxiety. "Here, come, sit down," He insisted, pointing his bow over at John's chair.

"No," John said again. He was dazed. Sherlock hated the lack of emotion on his friend's face.

"John," Sherlock said softly. No answer. "John!" A little sharper, this time. Sharp enough that it caught John's attention. "I know you're shocked, and obviously questioning if this is reality, hallucination, or dream. I can assure you, I _am _here. I am. Just like that miracle you asked for, actually. See," he grinned briefly, his eyes crinkling at the edges, "You should be pleased."

The second the words were out of his mouth, the second John's eyes widened, Sherlock realized the mistake he had made.

"M…Miracle?" John's voice was shaky. "How did you know about that? How could you _possibly _know about that?"

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft and regretful; it was the closest he could get to pleading.

"No!" Sherlock saw the tension, saw the shock, saw the building rage in John's posture, his clenched fists, his shaking body. His jaw was tight and his eyes were full of ire and maybe just a thin lining of unshed tears. "Don't. Either you are a hallucination, or you're real and were there. Were you there, Sherlock, as I stood at your grave and _cried _for you? Were you there while I pleaded for you to come back?"

Even Sherlock, callous though he always was, always had been, felt guilt so intense it took his breath away.

He didn't like it, and clenched his teeth, raised his chin haughtily, and narrowed his eyes. "Yes." His voice was no longer pleading, but clipped and disdainful.

This created even more fury in John. "So that's it, then? Nearly a year of leaving me to think you've been dead, and this is what I- You know what? Fine. I don't know why I'm surprised. It's just like you to pull something like this and expect everything to go back to normal once you've come back."

"Well why shouldn't it?" Sherlock's eyes weren't on John anymore. He was once again inspecting his violin. It sounded like, by this point, he had grown bored with the conversation. In truth, he was reeling inside. His heart was fluttering madly, excited to finally see John but nervous and panicky at how it was turning out so far. This was not how he had planned it. He thought for sure that John would be happy to see him, but it seemed he had disappointed John. Again.

He never was good at this sort of thing.

John's eyes widened for a moment. He had almost forgotten how utterly impossible, how utterly self-centered this man had been. John threw his hands up in the air. "You were _dead _for a _year!_" He could feel his blood pressure rising. "You made me watch you jump off of a building. I saw your body lying in a _pool of blood_. There was even a _funeral _for you-"

Sherlock's eyes darted back to John. "You didn't go."

John didn't even try to mask the disbelief, the _disgust _on his face. He nodded to himself, not wanting to look at Sherlock. "Yep. Don't know _why _I mourned you the way I did." The words weren't true, of course. He knew exactly why he mourned. But his anger and, honestly, his hurt, were overriding his ability to filter the words coming out of his mouth. A little voice in the back of his mind felt the need to show Sherlock what it felt like to be insulted, how it felt when he was so callous, so insensitive, so hurtful.

Sherlock held his poker face. He didn't want John to see how much it _did _sting.

Sherlock couldn't help but wonder... Had John not even missed him?

"You saw how it was affecting those around you, Sherlock. You saw how it was affecting _me. _And you just sat back and watched it happen. How long did you follow me? Or maybe it wasn't you. How long did _Mycroft _follow me?" John stared at the infuriating man in front of him. When Sherlock said nothing, he groaned and kept going. "Did you _really _think that this would all be okay?"

"Yes."

John shook his head. "You are… an unbelievably incredible man."

A hint of a smile curled at the corners of Sherlock's lips. It was more a twitch of a smirk than anything. "Well thank you, John, that's very kind of y-"

"I didn't mean that as a compliment, you… you…" John tried to spit out a word that correctly summed up his plethora of feelings towards the brilliant yet stupid man in front of him.

"Machine?" Sherlock offered dryly.

He watched John's face fall and willed himself to just stop talking. Why did he always do this? Why did he always feel the compulsion to be as much of a dick as possible? John-his John- had a look on his face that signaled emotional torment, and it was all his fault. If only he could just turn it off. But he couldn't, he couldn't force himself to say nice things, gentle things, if something a little more caustic, a little more honest was on his mind.

So, going by that logic, Sherlock shut his mouth for once. He felt he owed John that much.

John took a deep breath. "What you did was not okay. Do you understand me? Not. Okay."

"I was only doing what I had to do."

John continued to stare him down. "What you had to? You had to keep me in the dark this long? Do you even know-"

"Yes, I do know. Mycroft filled me in. He came to see me after he spoke to you. He was never supposed to tell you why I had to leave. I'm sorry. Forgive me."

John scoffed with disbelief. "You think that's why I'm-" He cut himself off as he realized something. "Wait. That was months ago, his filling me in. He _knew_? Even then? That information he gave me destroyed me, Sherlock. I know he was keeping tabs on me. He saw me fall apart and he _knew _and didn't tell me?"

Sherlock had no answers, because he had to admit even to himself that his actions had been unfair. They had all been for John's safety, of course, but were they fair? Not in the slightest. Sherlock brought his steepled hands to his lips and closed his eyes as he thought of a way to answer John.

"Sod this," Sherlock heard him say all too soon. "Sod this, all of this. I'm not playing this game anymore, Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes darted open instantly. "John..."

"Nope!" Sherlock watched as his doctor, his blogger, turned, wrenched the door open, and all but ran out of the room. "Keep the bloody flat!" He called back toward Sherlock before slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock closed his eyes again as he counted John's uneven steps hurry down the stairs. He could hear the doctor's loud, jumbled string of profanities all the way out the door.

_Don't go after him, _He thought to himself. _He'll be back. He just needs some time. He'll be fine, he'll forgive me. ...Right?_


End file.
